Dream Baby
by geekmama
Summary: After the "Sherrinford debacle", Sherlock's waking mind may once again be entirely focused on The Game, but even the World's Only Consulting Detective can't control his dreams...
1. Dream Baby

_**~ Dream Baby ~**_

 _With many thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for editing and feedback!_

* * *

He woke with a convulsive gasp, and lay blinking at his surroundings for a long minute, the incongruity of the moment striking him with devastating force.

Three months after the Sherrinford debacle, he had thought everything was once again in order. His flat (and its surrounding environs) had been repaired. He and Mycroft had weathered their parents' wrath and dismay. A positive relationship with his mad sister was being established.

And he and Molly Hooper were, once again, good friends.

Just friends.

Though, in that case, how was he to explain his current state: body still a-tremble, sheets now in need of laundering (and not by Hudders, he could just picture the speculative, teasing gleam she'd throw at him), and his dream still vividly, vibrantly with him?

He found himself swallowing hard, his inner eye helplessly riveted on the slender yet shapely form of dream-Molly, her silken hair strewn messily over the pillow, sheets rumpled beneath her, and her smile… sated, yet oddly innocent, and completely loving… took his breath away.

There was a helpless twitch of reviving desire against the already damp sheets, and he groaned, cursing, threw off the covers and fairly leapt from the bed, and stood there for a moment, swaying.

Was he some spotty adolescent, unable to master his baser instincts?

This entire episode must be deleted immediately!

And yet, as he stripped the bed, throwing the evidence of his discomfiture in a pile on the floor, and repaired, with what dignity he could muster, to his new state-of-the-art and beautifully tiled shower, he found his determination to delete fading.

And this was what philosophers and theologians warned about.

Temptation, thy name is Woman.

And, more specifically, in this case, Molly Hooper.

 _How on earth can that be?_ he asked himself as he soaped himself down, annoyed and strangely flustered.

And, again, _inspired_ by that vision of her smile.

Not to mention the rest of her.

He cursed again.

He should turn the shower straight to cold.

Was this the way to think about his _friend_?

Was this the way a man of mature years and disciplined habit behaved, even in the privacy of his own flat?

The warm water ran down his body. The warm eyes of Dream-Molly swam through his brain, enticing.

No. Enchanting.

He sighed, and finally leaned his forehead against the cool tile.

Apparently this _was_ the way such a man behaved.

He closed his eyes to the world and was lost in that ephemeral vision… sighed again… and surrendered to the moment.

 **o-o-o**

He had thought the dream would fade, as most dreams do, dissolving into a misty subconscious, leaving, perhaps, a warm afterglow, but affecting day to day existence very minimally.

This did not prove to be the case.

Strangely, every detail of that dream remained alive in his mind, and he found himself returning to it over and over as the hours and days passed.

He did not contact Molly. For one thing, she had gone out of town for a few days, traveling to the Lake District with a couple of her co-workers – both women, thank God, or he suspected he would have been piqued toward intervention. And after her return… Dream-Molly still plaguing him… bewitching him… there was a dearth of legitimate reasons to visit Barts – Lestrade was fairly astounded at the lull in criminal activity – and Sherlock was reluctant to visit his Siren's native ground for the less orthodox purposes that had served in the past.

This lack of real life Molly seemed to do little to assuage Sherlock's predilection for Dream-Molly's companionship. He began to wonder, in fact, if Dream-Molly's perfection would taint his view of the actual woman – which might be a good thing, considering what his imagination and subconscious were capable of in Dream-Molly's regard. Disappointment might yet cure him of this sudden, very strange obsession, and things could go back to… to what they had been before.

That his heart invariably sank at this idea told him how contorted had become his thought processes. He would have said _deformed_ , but could not quite bring himself to use such a derogatory term in relation to his… beloved.

He was sitting in his new chair by the fire, drinking a cup of tea supplied by his landlady (who was still unaware of his state of unrest, thank God), when this description… this endearment… occurred to him.

 _Beloved._

Well, she was, of course. Had been, as a friend, for many years.

But Dream-Molly was… different. So much more.

Ridiculous, he told himself for the hundredth time.

Or was it?

There was only one way of knowing.

And fortunately for his sanity (for he had begun to wonder about it, of late), Lestrade called that very evening regarding a possible homicide that looked to be a seven, if not an eight.

A visit to Barts morgue was in the offing.

And, ever-cognizant of Molly's schedule, Sherlock knew that she would be on duty.

 **o-o-o**

He swept in as per his habit, and there she was… there _it_ was, as she turned to greet her visitors: that smile that lit not only her countenance but her whole being. The element of satiation might be missing, but the happiness, the love was there, as in his dream. He found himself halting in his tracks, and felt an odd tingling against his cheeks.

My God, he was blushing!

Her smile was fading at his hesitancy, and she suddenly looked concerned.

"Molly!" he blurted, forestalling the question on her lips, "It's good to see you. Can you show us Mr. Steed? Lestrade here has promised me an eight, but I'm reserving judgement until I see the body."

"Yes… yes, of course. Hello, Greg."

"Evening, Molly. It's been a while, hasn't it? But the forces of evil never rest quiet for long – much to Sherlock's gratification."

Sherlock said, with a slight wince, "Gratification is hardly the word, in spite of what you may have assumed in the past."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Assumptions be damned, you've always been like a kid in a candy shop when there's something wicked afoot. Though maybe recent events have changed things up a bit?"

"Yes. Well. How could they not?" Sherlock said, glancing furtively at Molly. He felt heat in his cheeks again, and said abruptly, "Mr. Steed, Molly? None of us wish to be at this all night." And then his heart sank as he realized how that must have sounded to her. Like the old Sherlock.

Who, in many ways, was no more.

And indeed, a look of annoyance slightly diluted the fondness of her gaze, though there was still a question in her eyes, too. However, she obediently turned to do his bidding and Sherlock stood silently watching her comply. Studying her.

Wondering what it would be like to ease that lab coat off her shoulders, let it fall to the ground… slip his fingers beneath the edges of that cherry-bedecked cardigan… brush his thumbs over the sensitive peaks that swelled beneath the flowered cotton of her blouse and the soft lace of her bra … take in her look of surprise… wonder… her small gasp of pleasure…

"Here he is, John Steed, age 41," said Molly. "The preliminary exam showed deep slashes to the abdomen reminiscent of the ritual suicide customs of Japan. Unfortunately not deep enough to sever the descending aorta."

Lestrade grimaced. "So, a helluva death. Poor devil."

"Yes," muttered Sherlock, though he was rather thankful than not for the gruesome distraction.

It was all business for the next quarter hour or so as they examined the corpse and questioned Molly on particulars.

"Murder," Sherlock said, finally. "I'm nearly certain of it. Lestrade, can we get a look at his flat?"

"Sure. But it can wait until morning, eh? I have a meeting at nine that I can't miss, but after that I'm your man. Say 11:30. Shall I pick you up?"

"No, text me the address and I'll meet you."

"Right." Lestrade gave Molly a grateful smile. "You're the best, love. Thanks for taking us in on such short notice."

"Always happy," she said, returning Lestrade's smile with great sincerity.

Almost too great. Sherlock felt a familiar twinge that he suddenly realized was jealousy.

Bloody hell. Had he never known himself at all?

His consternation was obviously writ large on his face, for when she turned to bid him farewell the words died on her lips and her brows rose. "Sherlock?" she queried uncertainly.

He stared at her for a long moment, then cleared his throat and said, "Your shift ends soon, do you fancy some takeaway? I can wait for you."

Her eyes widened. Perplexed. But also gratified. "Yes. I… yes! That would be lovely!"

Lestrade was observing the two of them with amused interest, of course. However, all he said was, "Well! In that case I'll take my leave."

"Yes, off you go," said Sherlock. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Greg," Molly said, laughter in her voice. But as soon as the door swung to in the detective's wake, she turned to Sherlock, eyeing him curiously. "Sherlock, is everything alright?"

"Yes, certainly. I mean…" His voice trailed off as fear, confusion, chagrin warred for primacy in his breast.

But he could not lie to her. He would not.

"Molly… there is… _something_ ," he said finally. "But it should wait until we're back at the flat. Is that… acceptable?"

"Yes. Of course," she replied, smiling again, though somewhat worriedly. "Just let me finish a couple of things and I'm with you."

 **o-o-o**

He wanted to take her hand as they were leaving Barts, but did not dare. He glanced down at her as the lift rose to the ground floor and wondered at his trepidation. It was only Molly. But somehow, now, he knew she was so much more. Everything, really. His _better half_ , as old husbands said of their wives, being aware of so much history between them, good and bad, Heaven and Hell, and siting it as a matter of course.

There was a great deal between him and Molly Hooper, and it was past time the Heaven outweighed the Hell.

It was a black night, not too cold, but drizzling rain, and unfortunately, for once, his ability to flag down a cab failed him.

"Let's take the Tube," Molly said, giving his coat sleeve a tug, near the wrist, and leading the way, a last flash of her smile seen in the pool of light by Barts' doors before they were swallowed up by the night.

He turned his hand swiftly and caught hers. He knew she turned to look up at him in surprise, but he ignored it, and together they walked up the street.

Almost immediately the rain began to increase, from a drizzle to a shower.

"Oh, no!" said Molly, laughing as they walked faster – and then five seconds later she gave a squawk of dismay as the heavens opened and they were caught in a real downpour.

"Come on!" Sherlock shouted. Together they hurried across the silver and gold of the lamplit street to a place he knew, the side entrance to an office building that was situated down a few stairs, a well drained and solidly sheltered alcove at the foot of the tower of steel and glass. "Careful!" he admonished, as she slipped a bit and half fell down the ill-lit steps, but as he steadied her he found she was still laughing.

They fetched up against the solid door and, in that small, cold space, hidden by the noisy curtain of rain, he took his life in his hands, bent, and swiftly kissed her.

He felt her small gasp of surprise, felt her stiffen, felt her small hands clutch at his coat. He drew back slightly, and he knew she was staring up at him, trying to see him in the black night.

" _Sherlock?_ "

She sounded so shocked that his fear reared up again. "I… I suppose I should have asked first."

There was a moment's hesitation. And then she kissed _him_.

A sound escaped him that he could not but acknowledge was a small moan of relief, and he slipped his arms about her slight form, pulling her close against him, his head bent to hers, her kiss turning to kisses, tentative, yet eager, too, the moment stretching out, his heart thudding in an admixture of wonder and delight.

They were both panting a bit when they finally paused for breath. And Molly said, "Sherlock… is this… what is this _something_?"

"I dreamt of you," he said, shamed. And, at the same time, thrilled.

"A dream? Wh-what sort of dream?"

He gave a chuff of laughter. "The sort I haven't had in years," he admitted, cheeks burning again, and infinitely grateful for the blind, co _o_ l night. "Molly… I know you will always be my friend. But… I want more. And you… you still think of me in that way… don't you?"

Her hand rose to caress – he turned his head and placed a kiss on her palm – her slim fingers brushed the wet curls from his forehead. And she was silent for a long moment,

But then she spoke. "Are you sure? I mean—"

He kissed her again, with nothing tentative about it this time, showing her a little of the passion that was so new to him: a shining, beautiful thing with which to show his love.

He had never thought of carnal relations in this light. But with Molly…

When it ended, and they were forehead to forehead, warm breaths mingling, keeping the cold at bay, he demanded, low and intent, "Do you still want me in that way?"

"Yes. Of course I do," she said, her voice shaking.

They held each other, then, for a time, and those moments were replete with such tenderness, such heart-filling love, that neither of them noticed when the downpour slackened, faded, then turned to mist.

 **o-o-o**

It was past nine when the small sounds of the arrival of morning tea served to wake Sherlock, still lying abed, snug and warm with his Beloved. His Better Half.

His Molly.

 _His_ Molly.

"Oh! _Oh!_ " came Hudders' startled coo, and he could not repress a crooked grin. She must have noticed the pile of discarded raiment: still damp coats, Molly's cherry cardigan and flowered blouse, his own shirt – the aubergine Dolce and Gabbana, worn last night as extra insurance, what with the whole of his future happiness at stake. Shoes, too. But not trousers or underthings.

The bedroom had been the place for that… and the beginning of intimacies… well, that he had only _dreamt_ of.

Prolonged, and oft repeated, through the hours, and the dark night, and the sound of rain.

Intimacies that had left them both wrung out… probably a bit sore… and yet even now he could feel renewed desire seeping through him. His fingers twitched against her skin,

Hudders was leaving – his landlady now knew which way the wind blew and he had no doubt he and Molly would be subjected to some twitting and smug laughter when they eventually emerged from their nest.

And now Molly was waking.

She moved… groaned a little, and when he loosened his embrace, she turned onto her back.

He followed, for fear suddenly prodded him once more.

What did she think of all this in the light of a new day?

But there had been no need to worry.

There was nothing but love in the brown eyes that looked into his… her silken hair strewn messily over the pillow… the sheets rumpled beneath her...

Beneath _them_.

"Good morning," she said, her voice soft, and edged with that now-familiar admixture of wonder and delight.

And her smile… _that_ smile… took his breath away.

 **~.~**


	2. Wide Awake

**Chapter 2: Wide Awake**

* * *

 _ **In which Molly contemplates a whole new world (and champagne brunch at The Landmark).**_

* * *

This is for Ellis_Hendricks in congratulations on finishing her superb series, _In Loco Parentis_ , and because she was concerned that Molly never got that takeaway Sherlock promised in the first chapter.

* * *

The hours… the dark night…the sound of rain…

 _I dreamt of you…_

Molly stirred, encountered something solid, and gave an involuntary groan even as the solid something shifted to give her room…

Sherlock!

Memory came rushing back at lightspeed… those first kisses in that dark sheltered alcove… the laughter, the light in his eyes as they'd stripped off half their wet clothes in the middle of the living room… his hand on her wrist, pulling her after him, down the short hall to his bedroom, as though he couldn't wait a moment longer…

Then… quite literally _hours._ Sometimesevery nerve atuned to this new reality, and sometimes half dozing, the moments stretching out as in a dream…

Dreaming, in the dark, velvet night…

…to the sound of rain…

Other sounds, too. Helpless, joyous cries. And words, so many words… desperate babbling… languorous whispers. Words she had never thought to hear – or speak - in such a context…

Beyond all her seemingly foolish, unquenchable hope.

She would remember it all to her dying breath, she thought as she turned onto her back and her eyes opened to meet his…

...more green than blue in this shaded morning light…

…wonder and joy - and a dash of relief - in that beloved, crooked smile…

Later she would recall this moment, too, and find it strange that she had felt no fear that the coming of a new day might have changed things, brought him to his senses, or that he might be put off by what she was all-too-aware was her thoroughly shagged-out appearance.

But that was later. In that first, beautiful instant of awareness, she could only return his smile and murmur, "Good morning!"

"Molly," he said, slow and deep, savoring the word as though it were something new, and perhaps a little surprising. Sending a small shiver through her… a frisson of desire.

Good Heavens. He would surely be the death of her.

But she replied with a whispered demand: "Kiss me." And to her unutterable joy, he _did_ , with careful sensuality… and then less careful. Her hands slid up and she put her arms about his strong shoulders, just as she'd always wanted to do… the feel of him… so real, so alive! And the _taste_ of him… and then he made a small sound against her mouth as his hips pressed against her, _moved_ against her, his burgeoning arousal plain…

He tore his lips away with a soft gasp, closing his eyes and setting his forehead against hers briefly before raising his face and opening them again to look down at her, troubled. "I… Molly, I _want_ you. _Again!_ Is that…" His voice trailed off, his question unvoiced.

"Sherlock, it's fine," she said, softly. She brushed some of the dark curls back from his forehead, and caressed his cheek. "You… you told me last night it had been years—"

"And _never_ like this." His expression lightened. "You don't think it's… strange, then? Abnormal." He moved his hips again, and a suggestive smile tugged at his lips.

She couldn't help chuckling, and pulled him down for another kiss. However, before he could construe this as _full speed ahead_ , she said, "But Sherlock…"

He stilled and drew back again. "Yes?"

She felt herself blushing, but had to say it. "I'm a little… sore. I do want to… again… but—"

"I see. I can be gentle, though," he said, coaxing – but with a hint of mischief, too.

 **o-o-o**

Considerably later, Molly lay staring at the ceiling, her body still flushed and quivering, Sherlock's expensive Egyptian cotton sheets thoroughly rumpled beneath her – beneath _them_ , for he was lying on his back, recovering right next to her – and her hair, which was no doubt the very definition of bed-head, strewn lavishly across his goose down pillows.

"Do you think Hudders will have heard that?" he asked, still somewhat breathless, but laughter in his voice in spite of it.

Molly gave an amused snort. "I daresay. I don't believe I will think of the word _gentle_ in quite the same way ever again." She turned her head on the pillow to look over at him. "I assume you were telling me the truth when you said it had been years, but in that case… _how on earth…?_ "

He rolled to face her, obviously pleased with himself. "Research, to some extent – John's laptop, and those romance novels you leave about your flat have always been convenient resources. But you are far too easy to deduce, dear heart. _My darling Molly_." He had moved to embrace her again as he uttered these endearments in _that voice_ , and even now, after… after everything that had gone before… she felt a noticeable ache of desire.

But then, having trapped her there, he looked down at her quite seriously and said, "Marry me."

She could not help but stiffen. "Wh-what? Sherlock!"

He gave a sort of frown, though his eyes were still smiling. "Molly, I know you've been off the pill since you broke off your engagement to Tom—"

"I… you… my _age_ —"

"Yes, you have reached the age when other forms of birth control are preferable – but you didn't think you'd need any of _them_ , either. And here we are: quite possibly pregnant, since, if I remember correctly, this would be about day fifteen of your cycle—"

"How do you _know_ that?" she exclaimed, outraged and blushing furiously.

"Please," he said with a roll of his eyes, "your mood swings alone—"

"My wh—"

He kissed her, which very possibly preserved his life. She squirmed beneath him, attempting to preserve her wrath, but he was so very persistent… and it was so very… _enjoyable_.

When she was (admittedly) thoroughly subdued, he pulled away very slightly and said, "Molly… my love… my darling pathologist, and lover… and _friend_ … don't you want to? Haven't we wasted enough time?"

"That wasn't _my_ fault," she said, pointedly.

He sighed. "I know that. And just think: you will be in a position to hold it over me for the rest of our lives if only you will say yes."

A swarm of objections rose in her brain, only to be dismissed as very minor in the scheme of things. And, in a Sherlockian sense, this proposal was eminently logical. "Very well," she said. And then her pique at his abrupt methods faded quite away and she added worriedly, "But are _you_ sure?"

He opened his mouth, and she knew he was about to dismiss her concern with his typical insouciance. But then his expression changed to something far more serious and tender. "Yes, I'm sure," he said simply. After another kiss, he added, "Thank you for waiting for me."

There was a brief silence as they considered one another, contemplating this momentous, life-changing decision…

And then her stomach growled.

Her hope that he hadn't heard it was dashed immediately.

"Hungry?" He chuckled, eyes alight – an expression she ordinarily adored.

But she resisted its infectious quality and summoned a scowl. "You _did_ promise me takeaway last night. I haven't eaten since this time yesterday."

"You had a packet of crisps. I saw it in the bin."

"A packet of crisps in twenty-four hours! Are you trying to starve me?"

"But wasn't it worth it?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. And couldn't help herself. "Oh my God, _yes it was_ ," she exclaimed, and kissed him again, and wrapped herself about him in a fierce hug. He laughed beneath the kiss, and then she was laughing, too, and, a minute or two later, they were still laughing as they faced each other on the pillows.

He said, "Let's shower and go out to brunch. The manager at the Landmark owes me a favor, I'll text him. And then we can go and shop for your engagement ring."

Her heart swelled with joy – but then plummeted slightly. "I'll have to go home first, I have to get some suitable clothing. And feed Toby."

"Oh, _Toby_ ," he groused with an eye-roll, but there was no real heat in it. "Yes, very well. But come shower with me, first."

 **o-o-o**

Their sudden, all-consuming sexual liaison had thrown them into the deep end and no mistake. It was one thing to lose oneself in such ecstasy, and quite another to experience the more mundane domestic intimacies for the first time as a committed couple. Sherlock seemed boyishly unsure of himself, and she felt a bit awkward, too, in spite of the fact that not so many months had passed since she had helped him through his latest (and, as he had stated quite adamantly at the time, last) recovery from drug abuse. That had been different. She had served in the capacity of medical professional, as well as caretaker and friend.

Now, they were lovers.

And engaged to be married.

As he moved the soapy cloth over her breasts and down over her tummy (an utterly fatuous smile curving his lips, if only he'd known it), she could not help wondering if she was, indeed, pregnant. It was certainly possible. And at that thought… the awareness that their affection, and their shining new commitment might bring a new life into the world – a superb and possibly startling combination of Holmes and Hooper genes - such a wave of tenderness swept through her that tears stung, then filled her eyes.

Sherlock saw her lip tremble and his smile vanished. "What is it?"

"Nothing! I… what if I _am_ pregnant?" She swiped the heel of her hand against the tears trickling down her cheek. "I might be, you know. You were right."

His smile was back. And growing. "We'll manage," he said, and dropping the soapy cloth, he drew her close and held her for a long time, his cheek against her wet hair as the warm water poured over them.

 **o-o-o**

Toby was extremely vocal in expressing his opinion of her prolonged absence.

Molly laughed, and Sherlock, suppressing a grin, said, "Go change your clothes, I'll feed him. I know where everything is."

"I'll only be a few minutes," Molly assured him, trotting up the stairs as Sherlock bent and scooped up the cat to carry him into the kitchen.

When she came down again – in a few minutes, just as promised - she found her lover leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as her cat consumed what looked to be a whole tin of the posh wet food, the kibble dish sitting close by and already refilled.

"I've given him fresh water, too," Sherlock told her, looking up. And then his brows rose. "Where did you get that dress?"

"I've had it a while," she replied, smiling at the light in his eyes, vastly pleased that he seemed to approve. "It's an Alexander McQueen. I was lucky enough to find it in a second-hand shop – too rich for my blood, otherwise. I… I thought you might like it." The mini-dress was fitted and short-sleeved, with a flared skirt, and made of a smooth white material with an elaborate pattern of black scrollwork over all. She had felt, when she bought it (and not precisely dirt-cheap, either, in spite of the locale), that it would be perfect to wear if Sherlock ever asked her out – yes, even after all these years she had still lived in hope – since it would provide a pleasing contrast to the elegant simplicity of his dark, bespoke suits.

"I do like it," he said, and set his hands at her waist, bent (only slightly, since she was wearing heels), and kissed her. "You look beautiful."

"Then there's a pair of us," she said lightly, even as she blushed, her heart thumping.

He took her hand. "Come on, let's go eat so we can get back to more important things." And he actually waggled his brows at her.

 **o-o-o**

They were in the cab, halfway to the Landmark (where seating at a secluded table and iced champagne awaited them), when the faint sound of a particular text alert issued from the pocket of Sherlock's coat.

They turned to each other in sudden dismay, and Sherlock blurted, "Lestrade! I forgot all about that."

"The Steed murder." Molly winced. "Maybe we should do dinner, instead?"

But a stubborn look swept over Sherlock's face. "No. We'll go now, it won't take long." And, after checking his mobile for the address, he leaned forward to give the cabbie their new direction.

 **o-o-o**

Greg's face was the very picture of astonishment when they showed up, dressed to the nines and exchanging a loving glance as Sherlock handed Molly from the cab.

"What the… are you two off to a wedding or something?" Greg demanded.

"No, not at all," Sherlock said, rather haughtily as he straightened and smoothed his coat. But then he added, "Not yet, at least," and his lip twitched against a smile.

Molly blushed only a very little (she trusted) as she said, "Hello, Greg," just as she had the previous night... in another world.

Greg's eyes flew back and forth between them, a grin forming. "Bloody hell!" He said to Sherlock. "You finally got off your arse!"

Sherlock glared at him, but otherwise ignored this remark. "You won't mind Molly attending, will you? Her input might be valuable, and speed things along. The management of the Landmark is holding a table for us, and Molly is _very hungry_."

"That right?" Greg grinned. "No takeaway last night? Or tea this morning? Does Mrs. Hudson know what's been going on under her roof?"

Sherlock sniffed. "I doubt she cares what goes on as long as the place isn't blown up again."

Molly wrinkled her nose, feeling guilty. "We snuck past her door on the way out, but I believe she… um… suspects."

Sherlock looked a bit conflicted at what was, essentially, Molly's blatant admission of what precisely had been going on between them for the last fourteen hours, but finally gave it up and said to Greg, "We haven't told anyone, yet, really. It seems you're the first to know."

Greg's grin softened to something less teasing and much fonder. "Congratulations, you two. Lord, wait'll John hears."

"Not to mention our parents," Sherlock groaned. "But John's still in Tahiti, with that Gooseberry woman and her progeny."

"Rushbury!" Molly corrected. "And her little girls are the sweetest things! I met them and their mother when I was picking up Rosie from nursery one day."

But Sherlock was now looking thoughtful. "There's a ten hour time difference between London and Tahiti."

"So… two in the morning?" Greg mused. The grin appeared again.

Answered by Sherlock's.

"Sherlock, no!" Molly protested, but with as much laughter as disapprobation.

And, with that unholy Sherlockian gleam in his eye, Molly's beloved reached for his phone.

~.~


	3. Tit for Tat

_**Chapter 3: Tit for Tat**_

* * *

 _ ****_ _In which John Watson has the last laugh._ With thanks to Ellis_Hendriks for the invaluable beta reading and feedback.

* * *

"Aaaaah! This is the life," said John Watson as he eased onto the sun lounger, close beside that of his traveling companion - or, really, one of his _four_ traveling companions.

Cate Rushbury smiled in agreement, but didn't otherwise move, not even to lower her sunglasses.

She might look relaxed, but appearances were deceptive and he knew Cate was keeping an eagle eye on the children.

Cate's ten-year-old Jenny seemed to be taking good care of the toddlers, though. Two-year-old Jack Rushbury and John's own darling Rosie shrieked with laughter as the edges of the cool, foamy waves caught their bare toes, while a half-finished sand castle stood waiting a few feet away, beside the enormous _Finding Nemo_ beach towel that served as picnic, play, and nap venue. A green and white striped umbrella stuck in the sand provided shade for one side of the area, and its twin protected Cate and John from too much exposure to the tropical sun.

John reached over to take up his second fruity rummy concoction of the day. He said to Cate, "I feel a toast coming on."

"Excellent." Cate took her eye off the children long enough fetch her own tall, fruit-trimmed glass. "Fire away, Dr. Watson."

"I may have done this one before, but it's a good one. _To new friends and unexpected holidays_."

"Hear, hear!"

Glasses were raised and cooling sips taken.

But then Cate added, "And to Mycroft Holmes, too. The man behind all this…" Cate waved a hand in a gesture encompassing sea and sand, green grass and waving palms, and their children's simple delight.

John raised a brow, but agreed after only a moment's hesitation. "Alright. To Mycroft. May he continue to be less of an arse and more human than one would have thought possible."

"Amen," Cate agreed, with great solemnity.

John would have chuckled, but knowledge of Cate's situation kept his expression to a slight, crooked smile. Two months ago he'd known her only as Jack's mother, just another parent with whom he had a nodding acquaintance at the nursery. But that was before Sherrinford, and before Cate's husband, a top MI6 agent, met an untimely demise.

The one event had nothing to do with the other, of course. But Mycroft, who'd known the now deceased Rushbury, and was, of course, aware that the dead man's son and John's Rosie were mates at the Westford Little Becomers Academy, had actually uttered the words "kill two birds with one stone" when he'd suggested that John, Cate, and the children would benefit from a complete change of scenery at government expense. Then he'd actually coloured up with mortification at his use of such singularly inept phraseology and explained the details of the plan with much more care and consideration.

Sherrinford really had thrown Mycroft off his stride, John thought at the time. Lady Smallwood and Mycroft's PA Anthea were both doing their best to provide stability and comfort in the difficult aftermath, but John was strongly of the opinion that Mycroft himself stood in decided need of a Tahitian holiday.

Not that that would ever happen.

In any event, both John and Cate had been told in separate interviews that they would each be doing the British Government an enormous favor in accompanying the other on holiday. There was a 97.8% probability that they and the children would quickly mesh as a quasi-family unit (and how Mycroft had come up with that number John didn't want to know), and they would doubtless return to London quite refreshed and ready to take up the reins of their lives with renewed energy.

That 97.8% probability had certainly come to pass, and not only because of the inevitable exigencies and the cooperation needed when traveling halfway round the world with three children. True, Jenny was ten and quite mature for her age, but Rosie and Jack were infants. However, after everything that had happened in the last year, Cate and John agreed that this new adventure seemed small potatoes. They would get through it, and be better for the experience. And so it proved.

He and Cate were friends, not lovers, which made the whole thing much easier. Neither of them was ready for a new, serious relationship. But it turned out they did have a lot in common, and the areas where they differed seemed potentially complementary. Certainly young Jenny was encouraging the two of them to go off to dinner and enjoy the moonlit nights after Jack and Rosie were settled in their beds at night, but girls were like that, seeing romance around every corner. Not that Cate wasn't pretty, small and slim, with wide green eyes, neatly cut copper curls, and a scattering of freckles. And not that she hadn't shown signs of appreciating John's appearance, too – he was a little greyer, maybe, than he'd been at his wedding, but he'd lost those seven pounds Sherlock had accused him of putting on, and he'd taken care to keep himself fit even after Mary… well.

He looked over at Cate now. She was quite different from Mary ( _Oh, Mary! My darling torment…_ ), yet she, too, had a strength about her, and a calm way of dealing with whatever came up. And a sense of humor. It was coming out, now that they were feeling more settled in this strange, delightful place.

Two weeks down, and two to go.

Going back to London would be a culture shock and no mistake.

Which reminded him…

"Ah! I see you got your phone charged," Cate said with a grin as John retrieved his mobile from the pocket of his beach jacket.

"Yeah. Haven't missed it, but it won't hurt to check and see if anything's been going on." He pressed the button and the phone began to boot up. "They know they can send anything really important through the front desk of the resort."

"Yes," Cate agreed, and took another sip of her drink. She leaned back, her eyes on the children again.

But a minute or so later, John's brows rose. "Sherlock _called_. Two days ago. And left a voicemail!"

"Really?" Cate said in surprise. "I thought you said he never calls, just sends texts."

"He doesn't call unless it's bloody urgent." John quickly accessed his voicemail as a shiver went down his spine. His worry deepened as the message came on, but gradually cleared and finally he had to exclaim, "I'll be damned!"

"What is it?" Cate demanded.

"It seems… no wait, I'll just let you hear it," John said, and putting the phone on speaker he hit play again.

 _John! I suppose you've turned your phone off. Very irresponsible of you. What if there were some emergency? Well, we'll speak of that later. I just called… that is, I just wanted you to know that I will be… that Molly… that I… um… we're getting married. Lestrade suggested I should let you know right away, and indeed, he is the only person who knows – though I daresay Mrs. Hudson has guessed. And possibly Mycroft, you know what he is. In any case, Molly has made me the happiest man in the world, as the saying goes, and we're off to shop for an engagement ring after brunch – and after this murder investigation Lestrade's conducting. John Steed, murder made to look like suicide – I'll give you the details when you return. I… I was going to suggest that, as Best Man, you begin making some plans, but… well, I do trust… that is… let me know if you would be willing… to… ah… In any case… enjoy your time away. Text me. If you like. Or call! It would be good to hear your voice."_

Cate had tipped her glasses down her nose and was staring at John by the time this convoluted and, finally, somewhat wistful voicemail had come to an end. "So… he's marrying Dr. Hooper? I met her, you know. When she came to the nursery, once, to pick up Rosie. I take it from your expression that this is something of a surprise?"

"Yeah. I mean… it's not _entirely_ unexpected… they've known each other a long time. She's his pathologist at Barts."

Cate gaped a bit. "He has his own pathologist?"

"Basically, yes, that's the situation. She does him favors, has done since they first met, years ago. She fell head over ears for him back then, and never really recovered, though God knows he gave her plenty of time and opportunity – he can be a real berk, to put it mildly. But her unrequited love for Sherlock is practically a Barts tradition. Probably has its own exhibit in the museum by now."

Cate laughed. "Poor little pathologist! But now… apparently it's _not_ unrequited?"

"Apparently not," John mused. "You know, Mary thought… that was one reason she wanted them both to be Rosie's godparents. Along with Mrs. Hudson – Sherlock's landlady."

"Yes, I've met her as well. And her Aston Martin."

John grinned, but went on, "Nothing came of it, though. Being co-godparents. Or so it seemed. Sherlock, for all he's the smartest man in the room, is pretty slow in some areas. But then… well… there was this incident between them. During the… ah… Sherrinford thing. Can't really give you the details. Sherlock would murder me, and maybe you, too - with Molly's assistance."

"I see." Cate looked quizzical.

"Do you really?"

"No."

John laughed. "It is what it is. But now I suppose I'd better call him back. Wish him happy and all that. And tell him I will be his Best Man."

"Yes, from the sound of it he's probably been anxiously awaiting your reply. When did he call?"

"Two days ago." He looked up the exact time. "Or, hang on, two _nights_. It was two in the morning here when he called!"

Cate smiled. "From what I've gathered, he can be a bit scattered? Probably had no idea."

"Sherlock? Oh, no. That's the sort of thing he _would_ know." John considered, his eyes narrowing. "Would've been pleased as punch to have awakened me at two in the morning – not to mention you and the kids. _Bastard_."

"John!" Cate sounded shocked.

"Well, he is! Or can be, even now. I mean, he's a lot better than he used to be. But still…" An idea occurred. "What time is it right now in London?"

"They're ten hours ahead? Or is it eleven?"

"So two or three in the morning!"

"John, you're not going to call him now!"

"Oh yes I am." He hit _Return Call_.

"You might be waking Dr. Hooper, too," Cate pointed out. "And it's even possible they're … in the middle of something."

"Oh, _yeah!_ " John gave an evil chuckle. "All the better. And it serves her right for agreeing to marry him." The phone in distant London began to ring and John, the enormity of the occasion really sinking in, said to his now resigned and even amused companion, "Tell you what, this'll be worth every penny of the roaming charges! _Every bloody penny!_ " And then the call was connected, a sleepy voice muttered something unintelligible from half a world away, and John, grinning, shouted with hearty cheer, "Hello, Sherlock!"

~.~


End file.
